


By Sun Or Candlelight

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Community: daily_deviant, Community: kinky_kristmas, M/M, Mind Games, Obsession, Shapeshifting, Spanking, Stalking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron isn’t <i>obsessed</i> with Harry. He just knows Harry could do <i>better</i>, and he knows that as Harry’s best mate, he should make sure he <i>does</i> do better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Sun Or Candlelight

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for lilmisblack during the Kinky Kristmas holiday fest at Daily Deviant. I loved this prompt and I couldn't resist the chance to follow Ron down this rabbit hole of his obsession. I love writing horror and I love delving into the mind of the antagonist to see what makes them tick. This story was incredible to write, and I am thankful for the chance to do so! The title is from the song “Obsession” by Animotion, as are all of the scene markers. I do not own the world or characters of Harry Potter, I’m just writing here.

_~~~ You are an obsession ~~~_

 

Ron can’t sleep.

He tries. He lies down in bed, brings the covers up to his chin, and he wraps his fist around his cock. A wank usually does it, usually lets him relax enough to let sleep steal in and take away his mind.

Take away his _thoughts_ and the pictures that flit through, a constant moving imagery.

It doesn’t work, because all he can see is _him_. Dark hair and bright green eyes, the way he licks his lips when he watches Ron talk. The way his gaze drops down, drifting over Ron’s body when he walks around their flat in a towel.

Harry wants him. Ron _knows_ he does.

It’s what split him and Hermione up, isn’t it? The way Ron was always talking about Harry, and the way they always had something to do. Said she couldn’t get a bit of time with him when Harry wasn’t around, and Ron said it’s not his fault that Harry’s a good mate, the kind that likes to hang out.

Hermione said she thought Ron was a bit obsessed, which is daft.

Ron’s not obsessed.

He just can’t sleep while Harry’s out of the flat.

It takes three bottles of the good lager chased by two tumblers of firewhiskey before the room starts to sway. He’s almost out when he hears the door slam open and laughter as two bodies stumble down the hall and bang the door to Harry’s room on their way through.

When the squeaking of the bed starts, Ron wraps his hand around his cock again and pulls roughly. He times each stroke to match with Harry’s cries and moans, and then he makes himself wait until the sounds grow urgent, until he hears Harry begging.

He comes when Harry does, his orgasm as quiet as Harry’s is loud.

Ron tries to ignore the other voice, the other person shouting Harry’s name. Instead he rolls to the side and pulls a pillow wrapped in Harry’s shirt close and inhales the familiar scent. 

Sleep comes in a low rush of pleasure, and Ron dreams of Harry in his bed.

 

~~~ _Be still I will not accept defeat ~~~_  


 

“Hey, mate, have you seen my pants?” Harry digs through the laundry, a frown furrowing his brows. “I swear I threw seven pairs in the laundry bin, but I’ve only got five here.”

“You could try folding your laundry,” Ron points out idly. It’s what Mum would say, and Ron’s learned by now that Mum was actually right about a few things. It’s easier to keep a kitchen clean when you do the dishes right after dinner, and it’s simplest to find clean clothes when you fold them and put them away.

Not that it’ll help Harry right now, but Ron’s not going to point that out.

Harry groans, tossing things into piles on the sofa, muttering to himself. “Shirt, shirt, sock, pants… hey, Ron?”

“Mm?” He glances up, not making eye contact. He doesn’t want Harry to look too hard when he’s asking questions, so he feigns interest in _Quidditch Weekly_ instead, focused on the players darting across the pages open in front of him.

“It’s still your turn to clean the bloody bathroom. Any chance you could get to it this weekend? Smells like sweat and old socks in there.” Harry makes a face. “If I were missing socks, I’d think that’s where they were. It’s bloody awful.”

Ron nods idly. “Sure. Yeah. You going to be home tonight?”

The sound of movement stops, and Ron risks another glance at him. Harry is staring, and his expression is so _apologetic_ that Ron feels it twist in his gut. His fingers tighten on the magazine.

“You know how it is, right?” Harry says. “We haven’t seen each other all week. Remember what it was like when you and Hermione…”

“But it’s _not_ anymore,” Ron points out quickly. “It’s not me and Hermione. And I was there when you wanted me, every time you wanted a mate to watch one of your films with, or to go see Quidditch. I’ve been there all along, and now you’re hanging out with bloody—”

“I know you don’t like him.” Harry is quick to interrupt, looking down at the laundry as he starts to fold it somewhat neatly. “I know. But he’s… we’re… it’s _good_ , Ron. We’re just going to dinner tonight and maybe a film after. He’s never been to a Muggle theatre, and I thought it’d be fun to take him. You could join us? I mean, we all work together in the DMLE. You could at least try to get to know him.”

Ron pretends to consider it, pretends that he might say _no_. He cocks his head, then shrugs one shoulder like it doesn’t matter. “Sure. Yeah. It’ll be like old times with Hermione.”

“Sure. Yeah.” Harry finishes the folding quickly. “I’ll just let him know you’ll be joining us, then. And Ron…”

“Hm?” He doesn’t look up because he knows what’s coming. But he wants to make Harry _ask_ for it. Wants to add that little edge where Harry has to say what he’s doing.

“After, you’ll just head home, right? I mean, I was thinking I’d go back…”

“You can come here.” Ron shrugs again. “It’s probably better, isn’t it?”

“You have a point. His place…”

“Exactly.” Ron sets down the magazine and stands so he can clap Harry on the shoulder, so Harry _knows_ what a good mate he’s being. “So just come here. You’ve got your bed, and we’ve got breakfast, and it’s fine. I never hear a thing when you’re here.”

Harry smiles, relieved, and pushes his fringe from his eyes. “That’s brilliant, Ron, thanks. We’ll do that then.” He lifts the basket and heads out, calling back over his shoulder, “Be ready to leave in thirty, yeah?”

Ron would always prefer that Harry comes home. When he’s in the flat, Ron knows where he is, who he’s with. He knows that Harry is safe and within reach. This is where Harry belongs. It’s where he has to be.

Harry bringing someone home with him is a small price to pay, and Ron’s willing to deal with it. He has ideas, after all, how to make it better for all of them.

 

~~~ _I will find a way and I will have you ~~~_  


 

It isn’t that Ron hates books and hates learning, it’s that he needs a reason to _know_ something. It was so easy in Hogwarts to just let Hermione do all the boring reading bits, but now that he’s out, he’s had to learn to do it for himself. The funny thing is, he’s actually _good_ at it. When Hermione’s not around, when it’s all about Harry, Ron can do anything.

Sometimes it takes him late into the night, but that’s okay, because he listens while he works. Hears the squeak of the bed springs, the loud groans and moans, the muffled sounds where he imagines a hand over Harry’s mouth. His hand flexes, feeling the heat of his breath, and he pauses in stirring his potion.

It’s hard to focus when his prick’s aching; Ron reaches down to adjust it, giving it one stroke before he lets himself be and returns to the brewing.

The knocking of the bed against the wall stops just as he puts the final touches on the potion. It needs to sit now, needs to brew for a little while before he can add the last ingredient. And he needs to obtain that particular ingredient.

He planned for this. He knows his quarry well.

Ron strips first, letting his prick swing more comfortably without his pants, then wraps a robe loosely around his body before tying the belt. He pushes his fingers through his hair, makes sure that his erection isn’t visible. When he walks into the kitchen, _he_ is there, leaning against the counter, a plate of chocolate cake in one hand, a fork in the other.

He purses his thin lips, grey eyes narrowed. “Weasley.”

“Ferret.” Ron inclines his head, tries not to look at the way his pyjama trousers are slung low on bony hips. He brushes past him, cutting his own slice of the remainder of the cake that sits on the counter, inhaling the fresh scent of sex and Harry’s musk from Malfoy’s skin. “Couldn’t keep your hands off my mum’s cake, could you?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “You know by now that I’m not the same prejudiced git—”

Ron cuts him off with a wave of his fork. “Don’t bother, I don’t care. As long as Harry’s happy, this is all good.”

It isn’t good, but he pretends for Harry’s sake. Ron will play any role that is required in order to keep Harry happy. He will play _every_ role that is required. He takes a bite of the cake, letting the burst of sweet chocolate melt on his tongue, sugaring his words.

It is easy, then, to talk about Quidditch. To get Malfoy off on a friendly rant about the Cannons versus Puddlemere, and the upcoming match on Sunday. It is all a game, but in the end, Ron has won, because Malfoy thinks that Ron is a _friend_.

When Malfoy turns to leave, Ron calls for him to stop, reaches out to brush something from his shoulder. “Crumbs,” he says with a conspiratorial smile over the midnight snack. Malfoy smirks and leaves, padding on bare feet down the hall to Harry’s room.

Ron opens his hand and looks at the pale strand of hair lying there.

Perfect.

 

~~~ _Who do you want me to be ~~~_  


 

Ron hates the way polyjuice tastes. He hates the way it feels when his body crackles and shifts and changes. He shrinks two inches and the world seems off when he looks at it. His hands are more slender. Delicate. His skin feels stretched neatly over sinew and bone, and it is so pale that it almost glows in the flickering light. It takes him a moment to decide how to move, to make sure that he has that strange grace under control rather than his usual enthusiastic movements.

He lights the fire in the living room and creates the illusion of the sound of the Floo activating. Down the hall, he hears movement.

“Someone there?” Harry calls sleepily.

Ron smiles to himself. “Just me.” He loosens his clothes as he makes his way down the hall, stripping as soon as he sets foot in Harry’s room. He stands there, naked, letting the moonlight wash over him. Malfoy likes to make an impression; Ron has seen this for years, and he knows he wouldn’t stop just because he’s fucking someone.

He probably does it even more for Harry, posturing like the prat he is, not satisfied with how besotted Harry is. Malfoy is the kind of prick who is never satisfied, always wants more.

He’s not _good_ for Harry, not like Ron would be.

Like he _will_ be. Right now.

Harry blinks into the moonlit darkness. “You didn’t say you were coming,” he murmurs sleepily.

“I didn’t think you’d mind.” Ron sits on the edge of the bed, fingers drifting lightly over Harry’s skin. “Would you rather I go?”

Harry snorts. “Don’t be an idiot. Get under the covers, I’m exhausted. It was a long day at work.”

Ron takes the invitation and slides beneath the sheets that Harry holds up, pressing his body close to him. He is already half aroused just from being in Harry’s bed, and he knows that Harry can feel it. He presses a kiss to Harry’s shoulder, his hand sliding over his hip to find his soft prick and curl his fingers around him. “I know how to relax you.”

There’s a soft grunt. “M’tired.” But Harry rolls over on his back, letting Ron touch him, granting him more access than he had before.

“You don’t need to do anything.”

Ron is happy to take his time here, happy to just _be_ here, his fingers stroking along Harry’s prick until it wakes to hardness. His fingers drift back, cupping Harry’s balls, stroking his perineum. He stops when a hand catches his wrist.

“I don’t want to fuck,” Harry murmurs.

“Neither do I,” Ron whispers back. “Just lie back and relax. I’ll make it good.”

He waits for Harry to release him before he twists around, opening his mouth and taking Harry in. He’s never done this before—he doesn’t want any bloke but Harry. But he loves the feel of him, the soft skin over the rigid length and the taste of salt. He loves the way Harry presses up into him, the way Harry fucks into his mouth, his hips stuttering as the groans begin.

“D—”

“Shh.” Ron stops, lets Harry slip out of the warmth, his fingers curled tight at the base to hold his orgasm at bay. “Cover your mouth with your hand. I don’t want Ron to hear you.”

Harry laughs softly, and Ron feels the movement as he does exactly what Ron asks. Ron loves the idea of it, that Harry is so willing and so pliable and so happy to do exactly what he says. He licks slowly this time, teasing him until he hears muffled sounds that Harry can’t keep completely quiet. By the time he lets Harry fuck deep into his throat, nearly choking him, the movements are frantic.

Ron rolls his balls, presses a finger against Harry’s hole, and he is rewarded with a flood of bitter fluid in his mouth. He swallows out of reflex, managing not to lose all of it, but his mouth is sticky and wet. He surges up over Harry and kisses him, letting Harry lick into his mouth and taste himself.

He is still hard and hungry, while Harry is sated and limp.

“I can take care of that,” Harry murmurs when Ron ruts against his hip, but his hands stay where they are, lassitude stronger than desire.

“Roll over, let me hold you,” Ron tells him, and Harry does what he says, soft and pliable after his orgasm.

They fit together perfectly, this borrowed body and Harry, his bottom pressed back against Ron’s hard prick. When he thrusts forward, it strokes between his cheeks, sliding in the dampness left from the fluid that dripped when Ron couldn’t swallow it all.

It is wet, and warm, and it is Harry who snores softly in Ron’s arms, sleeping while Ron fucks the soft crevasse of his ass. He won’t slip inside of him—Harry’s not ready, and he said no. But Ron will take what Harry has given him, rutting hard against him until the orgasm bubbles up and he comes across his skin, leaving Harry marked by his semen.

He curls behind him as he relaxes, pressing kisses to his shoulders, loving the way Harry presses back with sleepy sighs.

Ron can’t stay here, not tonight. He needs to be back in his own bed by the time the potion wears off.

He touches Harry’s cheek, and Harry turns towards him even in his sleep, letting Ron claim his mouth in one last kiss. He tastes Harry and salt and sweetness, and it is hard to leave him behind.

But he can do it this once. There will be other times.

This isn’t the end.

 

~~~ _In your naked dreams ~~~_  


 

Ron stakes out space in the living room as soon as Malfoy comes through the Floo the next night. He knows they will retreat to Harry’s room and he wants them to feel comfortable talking there.

He waits patiently until he hears raised voices, then he moves quietly into his own room.

It’s loud in his room; the amplification spells work perfectly.

“I wasn’t here last night,” Malfoy says sharply, footsteps echoing softly as he paces. “I’m gratified that you enjoy my company enough to dream of me, but I assure you, I was elsewhere.”

“It wasn’t a dream, Draco.” Harry’s voice is patient, and Ron imagines him lying back on the bed, slightly spread-eagled, playing with his half-hard cock and his balls. Waiting. “Dreams don’t leave me sticky.”

“Some dreams most certainly can.” The smirk is all too clear.

“On my back and ass?” The rustle of sheets, the movement of cotton as Harry slides across the bed. “Come to bed, Draco. I didn’t take care of you last night, and you took brilliant care of me. You get anything you want from me tonight.”

“Anything?” The footsteps stop.

“Anything.”

Silence after that, and Ron can’t bring images to mind. There is _something_ happening, something _different_ , he is sure of it. Something special. _New_. He presses his hand to the wall and whispers a spell that pokes a tiny pinhole in the wall. Just enough to peer through.

Just enough to see.

Malfoy has already bound Harry’s hands, twisting them in a pillowcase and sticking them with a charm to the wall. There is a twist to Harry’s body, moving as his chest rises and falls, the breath rough and hungry. His prick is hard, weeping a tiny dot of fluid that Malfoy takes the time to rub over the head, teasing him with it.

With one gesture from Malfoy, Harry flips on the bed, face down and arse up. He barely has a moment to breathe before Malfoy’s hand lands on his ass with a smack, leaving a bright red print behind. Harry whines, and Malfoy smirks and does it again.

They fall into a rhythm, Harry’s hips swaying, his prick barely touching the mattress with every push forward. His skin is bright red, marked with handprints, and even though Malfoy is still dressed, Ron can see the hard ridge of his own prick.

He doesn’t want to watch Malfoy; he wants to watch Harry. Wants to see how much harder he seems to get when Malfoy puts a blindfold over his eyes, pushes a gag into his mouth. More ropes come out, spreading Harry’s legs, pushing him down and keeping him in place on the bed. He can barely move as Malfoy presses into him, fucking him hard. Harry groans around the gag, and Ron pulls back from the hole so he can settle onto his bed.

He doesn’t want to see anymore, doesn’t want to know the look on Malfoy’s face. He wants to imagine Harry like that under him, bound and taut and kept perfectly still while Ron fucks into him, pushing so deeply that Harry knows who it is who owns him.

He has his prick in his hand, stroking roughly in time to the thrusts he can hear so clearly through the wall. He murmurs with Malfoy: _come for me, Harry, come on, come for me._ And when he hears the groan that he knows is Harry spilling over the sheets, Ron comes too, sticky and hot over his hand.

His head falls back against the pillow, his mind still caught by the idea of Harry in ropes, bound and held in place. Ron knows what to do next. He knows how to make their lives _perfect_.

 

~~~ _Turned to madness ~~~_  


 

Malfoy sends clothing into his traveling bag with an annoyed flick of his wand. “You don’t have to hover, Weasley,” he snaps. “I’m perfectly capable of packing my own bags and disappearing.”

“If I let you go off without some help, Harry would have my hide.” Ron keeps his voice mild. Harry will never find out he is here, after all, but the lie comes easily. “The assignment won’t last long. A year, maybe two at the top. Have you broken it off yet?”

Malfoy gives him a dark look. “Do not nag me, Weasel. I assure you, Harry will not be left dangling in the wind after an absentee lover, nor will the wizarding public believe that he and I are still involved. Do you promise that you will give him the truth when I am gone?”

It’s a tricky assignment, and one that Ron has had to work to ensure that it was given to Malfoy. More than a year abroad, deep undercover, working with the dark wizards in order to break the organization from the inside out. It will bring prestige, but more importantly, it will separate Malfoy from Harry.

“Of course I will,” he lies easily. Ron knows what is _best_ for Harry, and Malfoy is not that. Ron will take care of Harry, will ensure that he does well while Malfoy is gone. Ron will be there when Malfoy will not.

Malfoy’s shoulders relax. “Thank you.”

He packs quickly and efficiently, his entire life narrowed down to two small bags that Ron will ensure are sent to his new home. For the moment, Malfoy must leave with nothing, and Ron sends him off, agreeing to send the bags and seal the flat behind him.

It gives him the moment he needs to run his hand over dirty sheets, across the bristles of a comb. He collects fine strands of pale hair, slipping them into his pocket carefully. He doesn’t count, but he is certain that by the time he is done, no trace of Malfoy remains in the flat, and more than a month’s worth of ingredients are in his pocket.

It truly is the perfect plan.

Ron arrives at the Ministry just as Harry and Malfoy are arguing in the main hall. Voices are loud, words are strong and angry, and Harry looks hurt. Ron keeps to the side, waiting, and when Malfoy turns to stalk away, he catches up with quick strides.

“Your bags will be there when you arrive. There’s only one thing left.” Ron walks with him to one of the private rooms, presses a portkey against Malfoy’s palm. “Standard protocol before you go undercover.”

Malfoy stands there quietly while Ron presses the tip of his wand to his temple. He says nothing while Ron removes all memories of his work, of Harry, of anything that might implicate him on this mission. He then quietly _changes_ things—his spell work has become very delicate after practice—and ensures that Malfoy will not possibly remember his relationship with Harry. Ever.

He steps back out of the way before Malfoy glances over and sees him. A moment later, the portkey activates and Malfoy is gone.

Ron hurries to the apparition point to leave the Ministry. He is sure Harry is already home by now, and he has a best mate to console.

 

~~~ _I have no control ~~~_  


 

Harry has cracked open a fresh bottle of firewhiskey, and it is already far lower than it ought to be before Ron gets home. A glass sits waiting on Ron’s side of the kitchen table, while Harry leans against the heavy oak table top and stares at the wall.

“He said I was cheating,” Harry mutters. “Said I’d had it off with someone else, when I was rambling on about him being here. Sodding arsehole, as if I don’t know what his body feels like. That was _him_ , and he can’t even have the decency to admit it.”

“He doesn’t deserve you, mate.” Ron pours a double into his glass and drinks it down in one quick, burning gulp. “I’ve been saying—”

“You do _not_ get to say _I told you so_ ,” Harry tells him bluntly, slamming his glass into the table and pushing it towards Ron for a refill. “Draco’s not a bad bloke anymore. He followed his father—and Lucius is an _evil_ man—but can you blame him? Don’t we all just want to grow up to be like our fathers? Well, you never wanted to tinker with all the Muggle things in the back shed,” he admits. 

Ron doesn’t want to be like his father. His father is married with too many kids. All Ron wants in his life is Harry. That’s all he _needs_. And he will have him now. He will have him.

“He’s not worth getting sodding pissed over, Harry.” Ron nudges the glass away rather than refilling it. “He’s been an arse and you don’t deserve it. Forget about him. Pull one off tonight and you’ll see, it’ll be better than it was with him.”

Harry’s gaze narrows. “What are you on about? I miss him. There is _nothing_ about my hand that is better than having his hands on me.”

The words are slightly slurred, but Harry seems insistent. Ron could argue the point easily. He knows that Harry loved _Ron’s_ mouth, and he loved _Ron’s_ hands. That it was _Ron_ who made him whine and cry out in his almost sleep. That it was _Ron_ he was thinking of the next night when he begged to be fucked.

But Harry doesn’t know that.

Not yet.

He’ll learn. Eventually.

“I miss him.” Harry’s voice is soft and low. “It’s just odd to know he isn’t going to come through the Floo tonight and sneak into my room. That it’s just… _over_.”

It’s going to take time, Ron knows.

But he has a solution. A crutch to help soothe Harry’s aching heart.

He reaches across the table, covers Harry’s hand with his own. “You go on to bed, mate. I’ll see if I can talk to him. Talk some sense into that ferret brain of his. If anyone else had come in, I would’ve known, right? He has to listen to that.”

Harry meets his gaze, green eyes to blue, and he smiles slowly. “You’re a good mate, Ron. The best.” Ron watches as Harry stands shakily and wavers his way down the hall, leaving the door to his room open after he goes inside.

Ron has no intention of contacting Draco. He has another solution. A better one. Because he knows Harry will come around in time.

 

~~~ _I will collect you and capture you ~~~_  


 

Ron hates the way polyjuice tastes, but it is a necessary evil. He has carefully counted every hair that he collected from Malfoy’s flat; he has just over seventy of the fine, pale strands, kept tucked in a small vial, tightly capped. He places one in the polyjuice and waits before drinking it down in one gulp, chasing it with another shot of firewhiskey.

He shudders through the changes, and he doesn’t bother to dress after.

When he nudges open the door to Harry’s room, Harry lies there on the bed, curled tightly. Ron doesn’t wait for him to turn, simply gestures with his wand and sends the sheets tangling around Harry’s wrists and ankles, pulling his body into a wide X, spread-eagled across the bed. Harry’s eyes go wide, and Ron smirks, feeling Malfoy’s lips pull.

“You came?”

“We have rules,” Ron says, using the bite of Malfoy’s tongue to make the words sharp. “You will only see me here. You will be bound. You will be blindfolded. But I will stay the night with you every night.”

Harry blinks, and Ron gestures again with the wand, a shirt wrapping itself tightly around Harry’s eyes, blinding him. “Rules,” he says again.

“I don’t understand.” Harry is confused, pulling against the restraints. He might hurt himself, and Ron can’t allow that.

He sits on the bed, his fingers light against Harry’s skin. He hushes him softly, gently, teasing at the bindings until Harry stills beneath him. “I’m on assignment. Couldn’t tell anyone, not even you or your Weasel. And I can’t be here officially. So you can’t see me when I am here, or you’ll have that memory. Do you understand?”

Harry is silent, and Ron worries that he might not agree, even in this alcohol induced haze. And Harry _has_ to agree. Ron could _make_ him believe. Could _make_ him want this, but he knows he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to _force_ Harry into anything. Harry wants Ron. Ron is absolutely positive of this. It will just take time for Harry to realize it as well.

Ron can give Harry this little bit of help to get over the hurdle. Just for now. For seventy two days, until the hairs run out. By that time Harry will know the truth, and he will never want Malfoy again.

Ron’s fingers drift over Harry’s chest, teasing at one nipple, tightening thumb and forefinger in a quick pinch and twist, tugging it out until Harry arches and cries out. “Do you understand?” Ron murmurs again, and he waits.

When no sounds comes other than the soft, harsh breath, Ron lets his fingers drift lower. Harry wants to be _convinced_. Ron wraps his fingers around Harry’s half-hard prick and tugs, stroking the foreskin back so he can press his thumb against the slit, then he slowly wanks him using his foreskin. Slow and steady until he is long and hard and his hips buck up into Ron’s touch.

“Do you understand?” He asks it one more time, and when Harry cries out _yes_ , Ron smiles. “Perfect,” he murmurs. “Do you want me to fuck you tonight? Do you want me to fuck you so hard that Ron hears it next door? Fuck you into the mattress, until your ass hurts the next day and all you can do is think of me? While you pull and you strain and you can’t escape, because you are _mine_ , Harry. You are _mine_.”

Harry’s whimper is a constant stream of _yes_ , begging with his body and his words, twisting into Ron’s touch.

He has waited so long for this, and he doesn’t want to wait any longer. He needs this.

Ron summons the tin of lube and spills it over his fingers, sloppy and messy as he presses them between Harry’s legs. He helps him arch up, pushes a pillow beneath his ass to lift him and open him for Ron. Two fingers go in easily, driving deep. Ron captures Harry’s prick with his mouth, sucking him while he fucks him with his fingers, pushing the third one past the tight ring, waiting until Harry goes quiet beneath him before he twists them and starts to thrust harder.

He pulls away before Harry can come.

Ron doesn’t need to speak as he carefully slides into Harry, feeling him tight around him, pulling him in until they are bound together.

This is what is meant to be.

Ron places his hands on the inside of Harry’s thighs, thumbs pressing bruisingly hard as he holds on, groaning deeply when Harry presses back against him. “Fuck, Harry,” he whispers. “Fuck, you are just so good. Such a perfect ass, made for my prick. And you love it inside of you, don’t you? You love how it feels when I’m like this.”

Harry whines, twisting his hips, begging for more as he pulls against his bindings. Ron gives it to him, bending over to press kisses to his chest, nipping at his skin while he fucks him deeply.

He can’t hold back, emptying himself deep inside of Harry, but he also can’t let Harry go without. He stays where he is, Harry clenched tightly around his softening prick, while he wanks Harry with slick fingers, waiting until Harry comes in thick streams all over his own chest.

Harry gasps for breath, trussed and blindfolded, and Ron touches him lightly, feeling the muscles leap beneath his fingertips. He is so _perfect_ like this. Ron can’t think why he hasn’t done this before, why _they_ haven’t found this perfect completion in each other. Everything seems so _right_ like this.

“I love you, Harry,” he whispers.

“I love you—”

Ron captures his mouth before another word can slip out, before another name can be named. He kisses him, slow and lingering, letting that speak for them instead.

In time, Harry will call his name.

In time, Harry will know the truth.

For now, Ron stretches out next to him, waiting for Harry’s breathing to go soft and slow. When he is asleep, Ron removes the bindings and rubs his wrists to help with the blood flow.

In time, they won’t need these extremes.

Harry loves him.

Of course he does.

Ron curls around him, and finally, he is able to sleep.

 

~~~ _You’re my obsession ~~~_  



End file.
